A Load Of Tripe
by HardHatShetland
Summary: You probably remember Vernon Tripe as that dull kid who tells literally neverending stories. Outside of that, he's something of an enigma. Why did he attend Whispering Rock? Why does he wear a big green Fez? How did he end up in the GPC for three days the year before? What is his psychic speciality? And what was going on between him and Franke? Look and see. (Contains 1 OC)
1. Arrival

(Parking Lot, Campgrounds Main, Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, Day 1, 5:32 PM)

Vernon never was very tolerant of silence. Not for longer than eleven minutes, give or take. Oh, sure, he could tolerate background silence, where he and whoever he is relaying his many thousands of archived stories and anecdotes to were the only ones making a noise, but when it was the other way around, when everyone around him and said person were making an infernal racket yet they remained quiet… that was torture to him. Okay, maybe not that extreme, but he did not like it one bit. Why stay silent when you could be talking?

Just a few hours earlier, he had arrived at the government's top training facility for young psychics at the (in)famous Whispering Rock, masquerading as a summer camp. Or it actually was a summer camp. Not even the staff was sure about that. He had spent almost the entire journey there in that dreaded state of 'foreground silence', poking and prodding at Maloof, the one next to him, so he could hold some kind of discussion. He eventually got his attention, but only because Maloof had been psyched by a prior incident in which Dogen accidentally picked up the entire bus while trying to get a chocolate wrapper off the floor. This was duly followed by what Vernon is best at: telling endless stories. I won't go into detail what exactly those particular stories were, but the bottom line is, they went on for a whole hour before the bus finally arrived at Whispering Rock, and he could have gone on for longer; he has no shortage of stories thanks to his photographic memory, and even if some prankster erased said memory, then he could just look at his always-ongoing book of memoirs that is to be published upon his death. By that point, Maloof had resigned himself to staring out the window as he had done for the first half of the journey.

Next thing he knew, Vernon was off the bus one hundred percent with his minimal possessions and found himself in that dreaded state of foreground silence once again. Maloof was nowhere to be found, no doubt put off by Vernon's trademarked dull, droning voice. His mother Anju, an Indian immigrant, had considered getting him a voice coach so he wouldn't consistently creep out his younger sisters Cassie and Luca, but refrained from doing so as said coach might get distracted with her own distinctly non-American voice. It was in these times of silence that he would think 'out loud', as psychics say; when one thinks 'loud' enough to be heard by an average telepath.

_I need to talk to someone, this is unbelievably tedious_, he thought. _Where on Earth is Maloof? I didn't get to the story about the bus wreck. I was looking forward to that one. Mom loves that one._

His mother always was a sentimental woman who remained in contact with her American ex-husband, Vernon's father Robert Tripe, after their divorce, but the values instilled in her by her devoutly Hindu parents led her to pursue a policy of independence from the system, keeping the children 'out of the loop', with no meddling from any government or institution. So it was with many, many weeks of careful consideration that she elected to send Vernon off to Whispering Rock for a second time, especially after she heard about how her son was locked in the GPC for three days by the camp bullies the first time around. Coach Oleander certainly hadn't won her over with his assumption in the pamphlet that mothers are scared of psychic children, while fathers are merely ashamed.

Not many knew why they chose him as a potential Psychonaut; he barely even used his psychic abilities, at least, outwardly. If you had seen him on the street in the Cincinnati suburb where his family resides, he'd just be a normal kid; albeit one with an eccentric fashion sense, with his favourite green Fez. Vernon himself knew exactly why he was selected, though. It was all between him and his Uncle Omar.

…_The bus, the bus… what a bus that was. Burnt by 'hooligans' waaaaay back in the 70s and dumped in that field between our old house… and the old car factory, except they weren't hooligans at all, were they? Nope, they were on the CIA's payroll, sent in to cover up evidence of a Black Bag Op against a gang of Cyber-terrorists in the Cincinnati area. It all started when they were convinced that the Soviets had hired Afghan farmers to grow poisonous carrots that would allow the consumer to see in the dark at the cost of being blinded in the light, with the ultimate aim of forcing all of America's population to become nocturnal, allowing KGB operatives to operate during the day and the night, the edge they needed to steal the plans for the Department of Defence's secret weapon: an invisible, remote-controlled missile that, instead of exploding, released thousands upon thousands of copies of analytical papers that proved why Communism was bad. Or at least, how they saw it. Yup. Big stuff._

Everyone has their own way of coping with extreme boredom, and this was Vernon's. If he can't tell a story to someone else, he'll tell it to himself. In his head. Just go over it, correct any mistakes, make sure all of the details are correct. No plotholes. Gods help him if he left any gaping plotholes. Of course, this being a camp filled with kids that can break the laws of physics via the power of the mind, there was the added bonus that he was broadcasting said story to any telepaths around. And, as luck would have it, there was a telepath around.

…_So the CIA had some of their agents disguised as old green-grocers and planted all over the country to intercept the carrots, but it turned out the Soviets gave them false intel: instead of tainted carrots, it was… tainted… plums. Bags of 'em were arriving at a Cincinnati distribution centre on that very bus! Little did either of them know, however, that the bus was cursed!_

"How was it cursed?" A slightly squeaky female voice suddenly piped up behind the oblivious Vernon.

"Oh, it was- wait, who was that?"

Vernon turned around at slow speed, as he did most things, and was face to face with that 'girly girl' of pink skin and red hair: Franke Athens. Her constant companion Kitty Bubai was some distance away, still sorting out the many, many, _many_ possessions she had brought with her to the camp.

"It was me, stupid. Telepathy. They don't call this a 'Psychic' Summer Camp for kicks. I'm Franke Athens, by the way."

"Hey. My name is Vernon Tripe, or Vernon Tripe-Naranjahanjasupanday, to cite my full name. You can skip that last part, though, most people do."

An awkward silence followed.

"So… how was the bus cursed?"

"Well, uh… I didn't literally mean 'cursed' as in the magic sense, unlike the story about the cursed fish of the asylum, which I'll get to some other time. I just meant that whoever drove the bus, by sheer coincidence, became really, really unlucky."

"What happened to them? I hope they didn't die."

"Oh, well, prepare to be disappointed because just about all of them died. In horrible accidents. All of them involving juggernauts towing tanks of vegetable oil."

"Did the tanks full of the oil survive?"

"Yup."

"Ewwwwwww! I bet half the food I've eaten is contaminated with dead guy!"

"Well, I find that unlikely considering how the tanks are all sealed up and contained, so no blood, guts, bones, brain bits or other such assorted gore could have found its way inside."

"Awesome. So what happened to the plums? I hope I haven't eaten any of those. They sound icky."

"Oh no, the plums were all destroyed. The CIA goons shot the tyres out by the Interstate and drove it into that field. Then they shot at them with dart guns, or they were supposed to, but they dropped all their dart guns out the window beforehand as they turned a really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really…"

"Sharp corner?"

"Yup, a sharp corner. Right out into the forest next to a small campsite where a couple of cyber-terrorists were camping out. They found the dart guns and decided to dust them for fingerprints because they could keep records of fingerprints on their computers, and so they could blackmail the CIA guys into giving them a… uh… huge amount of money."

"Like, a bajillion dollars?"

"Yup. Ten-thousand bajillion, actually."

"Wooooow, that's way more than Kitty's father. He only has, like, two kazillion. Maybe I should dust for fingerprints on dart guns I find in the forest some time."

It was at that point that Kitty appeared in between the two, seemingly out of nowhere, hauling around about five bags wrapped around each other with duct tape. Pink duct tape, of course.

"Franke, what are you doing talking to this cross-eyed bore? I need help with all my clothes!"

"Oh, uh…"

"And did you say someone has more money than my dad? Nobody has more money than my dad! He's, like, the richest man in the universe! How else could I have all the latest nail gizmos?"

"Oh, I think Ver- uh, this random guy with the funny hat was just exaggerating."

"Good, because, if he wasn't, I'd make you carry twice the number of bags I'm asking you to carry now. Which is three."

"Sure thing. See you later, Mr. erm…"

"Black-Hole-Which-Sucks-Up-Valuable-Pedicure-Time. Or B.H.W.S.U.P.T. for short."

"Yeah, Mr. Bahwasupt!"

"Franke, you really need to improve your wit. It sucks."

Vernon simply looked on in silence as the two of them conversed and Franke's manner suddenly changed to one of contempt in Kitty's presence. Vernon, as chatty as he is, likes to consider himself above being rude, and gave the two girls their conversing space. As the two of them wandered off very slowly, to be expected, given the abundance of luggage they had decided to bring with them, Vernon started thinking topically.

_What a nice girl. Maybe she can be the assistant writer for my screenplay: The Thorn In The Towers._


	2. Lounge Discussion

(TV Lounge, Main Lodge, Campgrounds Main, Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, Day 2, 8:26 PM)

Oleander's Basic-Braining-Badge-Required-For-Further-Access rule was temporarily lifted for the first day at camp, much to Oleander's chagrin. The campers were to spend the day looking around the place, getting a feel for it, and getting to know the staff and each other. Mainly for the benefit of first-timers, but children complain if there's 'unfair treatment', so what applied to some had to apply for all. Just about everybody loved Agent Vodello, dreaded Coach Oleander, were bored by Agent Nein and just plain confused by Agent Cruller, or, as he was, Chef/Ranger/Janitor/Admiral Cruller. The day was coming to a close, and all the campers knew that tomorrow the Coach would force them to do some kind of traumatizing training exercise, with lots and lots of mental cuts and bruises involved. So the boys had taken over the TV lounge for the evening after dinner, (the only girl in the room being Crystal, who refused to be away from Clem under any circumstance) and decided to talk about the mind. Specifically, what it looked like.

Nobody had any idea what exactly their minds looked like, since the vast majority of them didn't even know there was such a thing as a brain tumbler, let alone that it was possibly the only thing that could let them enter their own minds at such a remedial level, as Nein would constantly say behind their backs. But they could always speculate. Clem and Crystal came to the conclusion that their minds A) looked the same since they have a connection, they thought, and B) they must look happy and cheery, with lots of lollipops, rainbows and colours that taste like diabetes. If only the other campers knew about their suicidal tendencies, they'd write that one off. Bobby and Benny were absent since the others conveniently forgot to tell them about the meeting, so there was lots of jokes about how their minds were just empty, black voids. Dogen received a similar treatment, if only because they knew he was a passive person and would take it quite well, or at least appear to do so (that is, until he left the room to seek solace with the squirrels he hung out with). Quentin was possibly the only one who thought his mind might appear a tad ordinary, perhaps mediocre, "Everything would be floating and chilled, but that's about it. I'd like it like that. Nice and easy", he'd say. Then there was Nils.

"Oh, man, I'd love to go right in there, and see all of the bodywork on display! Just thinking about it is enough to get excited, but actually seeing all the thoughts? Already, just thinking about seeing what I'm thinking about, I'm getting more excited than usual!"

Chops decided to call him out on his perverted ways of thinking.

"Man, I don't wanna go in there. I don't think anyone does. It'd probably make me vomit so hard, it'd be acidic."

"Don't be such a killjoy, Chops. Besides, you know you'd want to look at your images of the ladies, given the opportunity."

"I don't need to. Actual, real girls are good enough for me."

"Right… and I'm assuming by 'actual real girls', you mean JT." He quipped, before giggling in a manner that seemed fitting of his infantile, almost doll-like appearance; a rare occurrence to be witnessed.

"Hey, cut it out, you sick varmint boy!" Responded the angered cowboy-boy. "I ain't no dang-"

"I was joking, guys. Geez, you need a sense of humour. That, and lady skills. I mean, of all the girls you could've picked, you choose Elka."

"You're just sayin' that because she broke up with you. No doubt due t'your sick mind."

"Well, that is true, I did break up with her. But I'm warning you, JT. Elka's a nasty piece of work. Chops had better watch himself, for one thing. Elka doesn't like 'intruders'."

"Hey, I didn't know you were dating Elka. How comes you didn't tell me, eh?" Chops inquired.

"Look, I'll holler t'yer 'bout it tomorrow, can y'all talk about somethin' else now?"

Vernon had once again remained quiet throughout the whole exchange. After all, this was a shared discussion, not one of his storytelling sessions. He would get his opportunity soon enough. Very soon, in fact. Perhaps a bit too soon. Nils signalled the shifting of the burden of conversation progression to Vernon with the words…

"Hmm… we were talking about minds, weren't we? What about… Vernon here?"

Before Vernon could open his mouth, Maloof spoke up in protest. "Aw, come on, not Vernon! If we ask Vernon, we'll be here all damn night!"

"No, no, no, we won't be here all night." Vernon reassured everyone. "I'll keep this one brief."

"Good, good." Nils replied. "So, what's your mind like, hmm? I hear you like telling really long, complicated, drawn-out stories. So, is it like a never-ending corridor of words that go on for so long that they drive you insane with boredom or something?"

"Nah, much more interesting than that. I wrote a short story about it once when I was six, entitled _Behind The Words_. I envisioned the interior of my mental state as a vast library, with colossal wooden bookshelves that were all fifteen… stories… tall. The books in them were giant, the size of a small football, as in, soccer, field, and the words inside said books did not make any cohesive sense on their own… they were merely the endless words of inspiration that form in my mind every second I live and breathe, sit, stand, eat, drink, speak, sleep, walk, jump, pet, watch, repeat, et cetera et cetera. Words which I draw from my surroundings, by which I mean I look at my surroundings and I figuratively create a word from an image. So if I see Nils' hair, for instance, a few paragraphs for 'blonde', 'bowl' and 'cut' appear, including, but not limited to, 'bright yellow', 'platinum', 'golden', 'almost white but not quite', 'pudding basin', 'old school', 'Aztec chic', 'style', 'hairdo', ''do', which is just a shortened version of 'hairdo', and 'Looks kinda like Sasha Nein's haircut except blonder and younger.'"

"I'll take that as a compliment…" Nils said as he yawned a little. Many people yawn during Vernon's sessions, and as you'd expect, he never takes the hint. Ever. Not once in his life has a yawn stopped him from droning on some more.

"Of course, while a psy-keek would be exploring my psy-kee, he or she or it would have to take care to avoid the big, bad guardian of my rejected ideas… the one who roams the library with his bamboo cane, whacking about any troublemakers who dare to search the 'Vernon's Unwanted Material' section, for it is there that ideas are stolen, copyrights are violated, lawsuits are filed, and money is lost. His name… is Park Park Park. He was from North Korea, and the interesting thing about Korean names is that, much like Chinese names, their first name is actually their last name, and their last their first, and their second… their second. So, instead of calling him 'Mr. Park', you'd have to refer to him as 'Mr. Park'. Okay, so it didn't matter in this case as all three of his names were 'Park', but, just for future reference, you should know."

Nils could tell this was getting out of hand, and tried, in vain, to shut Vernon up. "Ah, okay, that's great. So, anyway-"

"Wow! So, was this Triple P person a character of yours?" Said an excited Clem Foote out of nowhere. It was strange for the (seemingly) eternally-happy, bouncy and bubbly cheerleaders to be quiet at all, let alone for such a long time as they had just been, but one thing was for certain now: the session was about to get out of control. Nils couldn't even bear thinking about the levels of annoyance that would come. A pair of annoying cheerleaders, a bore who never shuts up, and no non-annoying ladies whatsoever to distract him. "Tell! Tell! Tell! Tell, tell, telly-tell!" they started.

"Nah, 'Triple P' was actually an infamous bully at the first year of camp. I can tell you and Crystal repressed the memory of him, and with good reason. His parents were North Korean government officials, close friends of the Kims, who decided to send him over to an American Psychic training facility, on account of all the Psychic training facilities over there being starved of anything good like clean air, food, knowledge… but they didn't want him to be corrupted by so-called 'capitalist pigs', so they also employed a few Chinese hired guns to block off all 'negative' influences upon him and gave him free reign to beat the bloody snot out of any decadent capitalist child he came across. The staff didn't try and stop him at first because they were afraid it would spark another Korean War or something. Cunning, he was… using the fears of Mutually Assured Destruction to protect his own rotten hide."

Mikhail, who had also been fairly quiet throughout most of the session, his mind fixated on the giant hairless bear he swore he saw a few hours earlier, decided to relieve some of the boredom in the air by speaking up at this juncture.

"Is a shame there are no Psychic Summer Camps in Russia. Since fall of Soviet Union, the two countries refuse to associate with one another. If they wish to show him 'capitalism at worst', where better than New Russia?" One of Mikhail's talents, besides wrestling, was confusing everyone with jokes about the 'New Russia', AKA the Russian Federation since the fall of the Soviet Union, and the prevailing stereotype of greedy, insanely rich, shallow businessmen, more often than not associated with the Russian Mafiya.

"Y'know, I've been thinking…" said Nils with lightning tongue in a desperate attempt to change the subject. "How comes there aren't any Russian Psychic Summer Camps, Mikhail?"

"No Psychic Summer Camps in Russia since fall of Bolsheviks. New government find evidence that Soviet-run camps were less 'training psychic soldiers' and more 'removing brains to power psychic tanks to take over world'. Not good for international relations."

"Good move. That sort of thing would never happen here." Vernon started again. "Anyway, one day, Triple P decided he'd try and beat me up and take away my lunch money so he could burn it and eat the ashes, to overcome 'money poisoning' or something…"

"Aw shucks…" and a yawn came from JT. "I'm havin' trouble stayin' awake here… I have a real big hankerin' for some coffee. To hell with bein' too young." With that, he wandered off out the room, his head bowed and swinging all over from tiredness.

Chops promptly got up off his seat with the words "I second that." And did the exact same thing.

Vernon was used to this. Many a time have his easily irritable sisters walked out on him in the middle of a story, even when they externally interested at first. They'd always return to the room eventually, and Vernon was of the opinion that this was no exception. So, he continued yet again.

"Mr. Park approached me slowly with his bamboo cane raised high in the air, supposedly a present from the Chinese ambassador to the DPRK, and he hit me right in the face, causing me to fly back some three metres. Three metres! Yup, I really did fly back three metres. He walked over to me again, taking slow… slow… slow strides… stepping like a giant robot, if it was actually quite small and human. His bodyguards were looking away from him, but they knew what was going on. Then Park demanded I hand over my 'capitalist poison', or else he would beat me to unconsciousness, then possibly death. So I resorted to drastic measures. I was forced to use my biggest power. My secret strength. My ace-in-the-hole. Problem was, he was too fast for me to power up, and so I was knocked out and locked in the Geodesic Psychoisolation Chamber for three days straight. I was fine for the first five minutes, scared for the next two, delirious for the next three, unconscious for the next eight hours, awake and disappointed for another hour, asleep for seven hours, hungry for the next ten minutes, fed stale bread which I ate for twenty minutes so as to preserve the sensation of eating, then bored for the next fifty before another person got thrown in with whom I spoke to and recounted the preceding events step by step for the next thirty-five minutes, then bored again for-"

"ALRIGHT, YOU SNIVELLING MAGGOT FOXES, JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING IN THE LAZY LOUNGE?!"

The boys (and girl) all turned their heads to the lounge door to see that Coach Oleander had appeared. Brilliant, most of them thought. Time for a tedious reprimanding. But hey, at least he got Vernon to shut up, they thought afterwards.

"You are, all of you, LATE for my briefing tonight! And I HATE people who are LATE! You have DISRUPTED the course of education for these two fine role models, who told me of your LATENESS!"

Oleander stood aside for a moment to reveal Bobby and Benny standing next to him, snickering at how they had manipulated the system to ruin the collective times of their fellow campers even more.

"Just for being LATE, when you get to the briefing area, you will, all of you, drop and give me FORTY! Not twenty, FORTY! And if any of you COMPLAIN, you will do SIXTY before lights out! Your ARMS will all fall off like the FROZEN TWIGS they are, sparing the Psychonauts the pain of having to train LAZY MAGGOT FOXES! Now, to the briefing area, on the TRIPLE!"

The room's occupants all started groaning and grumbling as they got up out of their seats and began the long walk to the Reception area. Vernon grumbled for much longer than the rest of them. He never got to tell them about his hidden power, which meant, no doubt, that he'd have to actually use it. Not like any of them would believe him, but then he realized, that was the joy of it. Sowing paranoia. Endless hilarity. Great story potential. He chuckled just thinking about it.

_No, that's no good... that'd be an abuse. Uncle Omar would be furious, and it's not nice when he's furious._


	3. Mumbai Flashback

(The Apartment of Omar Naranjahanjasupanday, Mumbai, India, Day -730, 11:05 AM)

It was at this time, a year before Vernon's first visit to Whispering Rock, that he and his family were taking a visit to his Uncle Omar in his home in Mumbai. On this particular day, the family were out seeking spiritual guidance on how to improve certain… aspects of life. Aspects of life that are inappropriate for children to hear. Therefore, Vernon and his sisters were left in the care of Omar for a few hours, and Omar made the most of it. He had something important to teach his nephew, who stood in the absence of any children of his own.

Vernon was sitting on the central table in Omar's dusty dining room, writing up the first few lines for his now-new screenplay: _The Thorn In The Towers,_ a supernatural thriller 'based on a true story'; specifically, the events that lead to the condemnation of the infamous Thorney Towers asylum. Granted, somebody else had already written, directed, produced and distributed a movie about the same thing, but hey, a lot of movies were made about the _Titanic_ disaster, so why not this?

Omar walked into the room. His visage was instantly recognizable as being from the Naranjahanjasupanday lineage; his face was like Vernon's, except longer than wide and with the addition of a goatee. He wore simple glasses underneath the characteristic single plume of hair escaping the front of his chosen headgear; in this case, a giant red turban. His clothes were of the 'ragged explorer businessman in the Sahara' variety, with sweaty white button-down shirt w/ sleeves rolled up, desert camo trousers and bare feet. He pulled back the seat opposite Vernon's, screeching on the tiled floor as he did so, plonked himself down, and proceeded to slide Vernon's writings away from him. Vernon had anticipated this may happen, as it had happened many times before, so he was quick to slide it back. Omar, as it happened, was quick to slide it back again, faster than one would think naturally possible. But of course, he was part of a psychic family. It doesn't take a genius to figure out how he had reacted so soon.

"Listen, Vernon, my boy…" he started off in his thick accent, only to be interrupted milliseconds later with:

"Your boy? I'm your nephew. Your sister's brother. Your… cousin-in-laws'…"

"Boy, nephew, it's all the same. Enough with the pedantism! Just listen: one of these days, you're going to be selected for special Psychonaut training. You may think yourself as horrible at the psychic arts, but-"

"I told you, Uncle Omar. I don't wanna be a Psychonaut, I wanna be a film director/writer, like… Alfrilliam Shakes-hitch. I would've said 'Shakesco-"

"Yes yes yes, but it sounds bad. Look, I know you're a natural-born storyteller. I've been into your mind, so I know."

"You have?"

"Don't play dumb, you felt my presence inside your mind. You're smarter and more powerful."

"I know. You're the one who's playing dumb, Uncle Omar. You act like I don't know, but I do. The only reason you want me in the Psychonauts so badly is because they rejected you. Twice. I don't wanna be your instrument of petty revenge."

"Okay, yes, I admit, I was never a Psychonaut. Yes, I was rejected. You know why? Not because I was dangerous, or incompetent; after I re-did the entry exam I got a decent score that proved I was fully able of ensuring the safety of my fellow Psychonauts. It was because I am a hypnotist. They were convinced that hypnotism cannot possibly be a good thing because it takes away free thought, the very thing that Psychonauts swear to protect. But of course the fools didn't think that they just get their free thought back after a while, and some people are better off without it anyway! They made a serious, serious mistake with their regulations, the same way many authorities of the past were too strict for their own good. Because they were strict, people came to despise them and the things they stood for. Psychics wonder why the Psychonauts have been losing members over the years, this is why: most people of the modern age, the 'psychic age'… pfft… psychic age my arse… are pigs. Cruel, selfish pigs. They don't care about the world, but it's not their fault; it is the fault of pathetically strict and arbitrary codes of honour of authorities like the Psychonaut Command. People used to care, like I did, but then they were shoved off because of some flimsy pieces of philosophy. It wasn't just hypnotists, either. Pyrokinetics, Confusioneers, even Clairvoyants all received the boot at one point or another. You only need to read the first few issues of _True Psychic Tales_ to see examples. What did they expect us to do?"

"I'm not sure they expected you to become a corporate spy."

"Corporate surveillance agent, Vernon, and it was a rhetorical question!"

"I don't get it, Uncle Omar. If you hate the Psychonauts so much, then why do you want me to accept their training programme so badly?"

"You misunderstand me, my boy. That's okay. I talk too fast for some. I rattle my thoughts off, and I get sidetracked. First, I don't hate the Psychonauts specifically. I hate organizations that pretend to accept everyone when really they don't. The Psychonauts may have lightened up to hypnotists and other 'questionables', but it's all a façade meant to appease people like us, the ones who got rejected, along with exceptional cases of hypnotists among their ranks like Morry Oleander. I'd rather they didn't get the satisfaction of taking the moral high ground by recruiting you when they rejected me. Of course, I can't force you to do anything. If you want to join them, which, as you've said, you don't, then go ahead. I won't stop you. But what I really want you to do with the training is focus more on developing your hypnosis skills. I can think of many, many international crises that could have been resolved easily with a bit of hypnosis. It's not really that hard. I know it took a bit of time for you to get that merchant to give you your new hat for free, but that's just the first stepping-stone. Remember what I told you?"

"Yup."

"And what did I tell you?"

"I must think of what I want to achieve, then I must think of who can help me achieve it. If they are reluctant, persuade them with false thoughts. Seductive thoughts that infiltrate every corner and crevasse of the mind, feeding them false notions of comfort that systematically shut down all higher brain functions. Imbue the words of my orders with concentrated feelings of reward that massage the desiderative side of the mind. Then reset their memory to before the process started. They will have their orders, but they will not have the memories of being given them. They will not question them, for they will feel they are performing the orders under their own free will. They will obey every order, unless it is so drastic that it draws their attention to the unusual nature of the order, thus alerting them."

"In a nutshell?"

"You let them visualize the Hand That Feeds, you let them eat, you grab them with it, then you make them think the Hand was never there."

"Well… that's the general gist of it, yes. As with everything, the more you hypnotize, the more you control, the stronger those concentrated feelings you feed your target will get. The training which I guarantee they will offer you will come in handy. I'm not suggesting you abuse your power like those cruel, selfish pigs I mentioned earlier… I'm suggesting you use it against them. Beat them at their own game. Besides, just think of the stories you could write about it. I've read that one you've got there, _Thorn in the Towers_, and that's all about psychic phenomena. It drove people to do radical things without even trying. If you could make some things happen to bad people in any workplace, psychic or no… well, what is there to stop you from drawing inspiration from it?"

"Huh… well, when you put it like that, I guess it does sound kinda cool."

"Precisely. Listen, when you go back to America, I want you to keep that hat handy. When you wear it, think of what I told you. Eye for an eye, mind for a mind."

"Eye for an eye, mind for a mind. Gotcha. So, anyway, are you gonna tell me the rest of that story?"

"What story? Oh, right, the one about my car. Agh, never have I seen such a four-wheeled disgrace…"


	4. Bobby

(GPC & Wilderness, Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, Day 3, 4:24 PM)

"And jusht where do you think you're going, Borenon Tripe? You shtill owe me twenty whole arrowheadsh!"

"I'm going to the TV lounge because my game of hide-and-seek with Dogen, Elka and Milka has been cancelled, mostly due to scheduling conflicts with my storytelling session soon, but also due to other factors. It's actually a pretty weird story. First, I followed Dogen's footprints into the forest, but they just sort of stopped randomly with no clues as to what he may have done afterwards or where he went. Then I found Elka talking to Nils about relationships, as she does, and I tried to tag her, but then she punched me on the shoulder out of surprise and told me that apparently hide-and-seek had a time limit and also to mind my own business. Then I tracked Milka to a cave and I waited outside for her to come out like a Mongoose. Then Raz came along and he asked me what I was doing, so I said-"

"I don't care about your shtupid shtory, Borenon! Well, other than the part about Elka punching you becaushe if you don't give me the arrowheadsh, you'll know what a real punch feels like!"

"Come on now, Bobby, I'm just minding my own business. Do you really have nothing better to do than wander around and around and around in circles, picking on people?"

"Wow, I didn't think you had the gutsh, Borenon! But it don't matter, becaush they'll be outshide your body in a pool of blood and teeth if you don't cough up the arrowheadsh right now!"

"I have been subjected to the wrath of Park Park Park, as have Clem, Crystal, Lilli, JT and all the other Whispering Rock veterans, including your beloved Chloe. Anything you do to me is mere peanuts compared to what he did."

"I don't give a shi- wait… what the hell do you know about me and Chloe, huh?!"

"Rumours have been spreading. You ought to watch your back when asking people out. True privacy is scarce in this age of electronic media."

"Yeah?! Well, I heard a rumour that you have a crush on Franke! In fact, shomebody poshted a notishe that shaysh she totally hash a crush on you, which I don't believe for half a shecond, and then you ashked her to meet you at Make-Out Cave! Well, lemme tell you shomething: Franke doeshn't like crosh-eyed boresh, sho you're washting your damn time!"

"I don't have a crush on her. I only wanted to talk to her about something."

"At Make-Out Cave? Yeah, right! The day shomebody doeshn't make out at Make-Out Cave ish the day I shubmit to the will of Ma-losher and hish Commie goon!"

"Well, I guess that makes sense since many people have been through that cave without making out in the process, and earlier I heard that you have, indeed, submitted to the will of Maloof and Mikhail."

"Damn it! I bet it wash Benny, the big-eared shishy! Well great, now I have to kill you 'caushe you know too much! Or… or I could take your hat inshtead!"

"Wha- hey, give that back!"

"Thish hat looksh weird. Doesh it contain all your boring ash hell shtories, Borenon? Will I get powersh of extreme boring-nesh if I wear it?"

"Seriously, Bobby. Take it off and give it back."

"Oooh- ooooooooh look at me! I'm Borenon Tripe the 'gifted' shtoryteller and profeshional dork! Lemme tell you about that one time where I droned on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about my bloodied noshe that Bobby Zilch punched in becaushe I bored him half to death!"

"I'm warning you…"

"Then I shaid 'I'm waaaaaaaaaarniiiiiing yoooooooooooou' in shuch a manner that I bored him even more! I bored him sho much, he shwung hish fisht right in my fashe, and I was shut up for good! Boo-hoo!"

'_Eye for an eye… mind for a mind…'_

"Okay, that does it. I hope you're a determinist."

"Oh wow, that wash sho amazingly… boring… I… feel shleepy… that'sh how boring you are, you… whatshitnow…"

"You are falling asleep."

"I… no, I… need to… punch you for… arrowheadsh… for Chloe…"

"When I clap my hands, you will wake up. When you wake up, you will not punch me, as you are too tired. Instead you will give the hat back to me and you will not attempt to steal it, or any of my personal belongings, from me again, as you have no interest in them. Also, you will give me your glass of lemonade, orange juice, cola or whatever if I command you to do so. If you do not have one, you will get one for me and you will like it."

*CLAP*.

"Eh… agh! Oh, geez, Borenon! You're sho damn boring I literally fell ashleep! I'm glad to shee you stuck around for your beating! Gah… but… I'm too tired! That'sh how boring you are! I'm too tired to beat you up! And… for shome reashon… I don't feel like keeping thish hat anymore. Take it back. It'sh a shtupid hat anywaysh."

"Thanks. Say, could you get me a cola?"

"What?! No! What gave you that shtupid idea?! Get your own damn cola, Borenon!"

"Ah well, I tried."

"You tried what? Actually, don't answer that! You'll bore me into a coma with your damn voishe! Yooooooouuuuurr daaaaaaaaaayuuum vooooooooishhhhhhhhhhhhe! Hahahahagh! Shee you later, Borenon the… the barefoot!"


	5. Revenge of the Lounge Discussion

(TV Lounge, Main Lodge, Campgrounds Main, Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, Day 3, 5:41 PM)

Vernon wandered into the TV Lounge to find the room illuminated by the eponymous TV. The room was glowing yellowish-orange, for the programme on at the time was some kind of old Western cartoon from the eighties, no doubt being played on repeat. Coach Oleander had gone on record saying that most of the really popular TV channels couldn't be picked up on the TV so as to lower the children's expectations of television and make them train more, but some thought the TV just didn't work well. Opinions were divided.

As he entered, he stopped to take notice of the room's three current occupants: Dogen, Kitty and Franke; the latter two had seemingly abandoned their little private telekinetic crafts club outside. Two of these three people were of immediate interest to Vernon, while the third was a potential obstruction to his interest regarding one of them. So he addressed Dogen first of all, as he walked in further.

"Hey guys! How nice of you to all show up for my storytelling session! And Dogen! I was wondering where you had gotten off to. It was really weird. I was tracking your footsteps into the wilderness, but then they just randomly disappeared with no explanation of what you did afterwards or where you went, but now I've found you, so, all's well that ends well, eh?"

"Teeeveee…" He responded in a monotone fashion.

"Yes, that is a TV, Dogen. Very astute observation. I'll leave you to it while I have a chit-chat with my pal Franke over here. And maybe Kitty, if she doesn't mind."

_Strange. Kitty hasn't objected to my presence yet. Probably just distracted by the TV. She'll order me out soon enough._

With that, he slowly and steadily walked over to a beanbag next to Kitty and Franke and proceeded to lollop on it, with his legs facing the wall opposite the TV and his head nearly upside down, as he had a habit of doing.

"So, uh… hey guys. I don't suppose you mind me being here, do you?"

"Teee-veee!" went Kitty, again with that monotone voice.

"Yup, that's the TV. Enjoying the show? I've seen this show before, but I can't remember what it's called… something about cowboys, I know that much. Warren's Roundup? No, Warren doesn't sound too cowboyish… I hope JT comes in, he'll know."

"Teeeeeeee-vee…" said Franke out of nowhere, once again in a monotone manner.

"Ooh, Franke, I wanted to ask you something. Well, tell you something. Just for the record. Despite what you may have assumed, I don't have a crush on you, just as you most likely don't have a crush on me. I realize that asking you to meet up with me at Make Out Cave was a really bad decision as it gave you the wrong impression. What I really wanted to do was talk to you about my screenplay. You see, despite the research I've done, it's proven to be a somewhat daunting project. It's called _The Thorn In The Towers_, and it's about the events that lead up to the condemnation of the infamous Thorney Towers Asylum. People keep telling me that I've written too much exposition and prescribed too many shots to the director, but then I remembered how you predicted the outcome of my CIA bus story quite well, so I thought that maybe you could smooth a few things out? Be an assistant writer."

"Teee-veee!"

"Oh, um, right, sorry, perhaps this wasn't the best time. Maybe I'll ask later. I've heard some really interesting stuff that happened at that asylum, wherever it is. Like there was this one guy called-"

He was interrupted with another monotone utterance from Kitty, except this time she went "Haaaaaackey-saaaaaack…"

"Hackey-sack? Heheheh, I love hackey-sack! It's pretty fun, the way you kick the bean-bag around and it flies all over the place like a crippled bird, except it isn't a crippled bird because if it is that'd be just horrible. You know, I wanted to partake in the Cincinnati Inter-school Hackey-Sacking Championship, but they wouldn't let me in because I'm a psychic, so they thought I'd cheat. Ah well, I passed that day playing chess. Still, I could go for a bit of hackey-sack tonight."

"Haaaackey-saaaack!"

"Yup, you sure like hackey-sack. Hmm… say, do you wanna go on a date? Like, a friendly, platonic one. We can play hackey-sack all… night… long! It'll be a good bonding experience."

"Ha…hackey… saaaack!"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Tee-vee!" went Franke real quick.

"Don't worry, Franke, I still like you. No need to be jealous. But yeah, as I was saying, I read about this one guy in the Thorney Towers asylum who apparently was some hippie or just a green party sympathizer who got hospitalized by Riot Police while dressed up as a cereal mascot who happened to be a Polar Bear. So, while he was in hospital, he developed an alter ego which manifested itself as… a twisted, homicidal caricature of that very same cereal mascot! Yup. Next thing he did was escape, put the costume back on and blow up a zoo with dynamite to release all the animals, killing over ten people in the process. Yup, ten people. Plus most of the animals he was supposed to be releasing, so he wasn't doing his job very well, lunatic or not. Then the authorities threw him in the loony bin, the Thorney Towers, the bin where loonies were thrown away to rot and decompose both figuratively and literally, the latter only in extreme cases of neglect on the part of the orderlies. By that point, his regular human side had degenerated to a feral state, attacking anything that came near, so they were forced to let him remain under the control of his cold, calculating Polar Bear persona, which was equally dangerous but not quite as violent, so they could tolerate it.

But then I heard that his human side was actually quite fine when he first came in: the twist is that he was driven even more insane by one of the other inmates, a man known only as… that one guy with the huge forehead! Besides his huge forehead, he had greasy blue hair, great spots that would draw a teenager's mom from miles away, and he was half-blind. Yet, despite this, his hobby was just driving insane lunatics even more insane just for the hell of it. Oh, I forgot, he had a giant brow that made him look like he was wearing a clown wig when combined with his giant forehead and greasy blue hair, even though he wasn't wearing a clown wig and all of that was, in fact, real. Seriously, you should see a picture of him, I totally thought it was a clown wig at first, but then I looked really, really close at the screen the image was on, and then I spilled my blackcurrant squash on the linoleum floor by accident, so I had to get down off the computer and clean it all up, during which time I thought about the picture and took into consideration the possibility that that was his actual head and not a clown wig. Once I had cleaned everything up, I took another look at it and I concluded that it was all real. Realer than real, in fact. I know that doesn't make much sense, but… I'm just emphasizing how real it was."

"Haaaaackey-saaaaack!"

"Ooh, you wanna play hackey-sack, too, Franke? Well, I was supposed to be going on a date with Kitty here tonight, but maybe I could have a double date instead. Host our own little Hackey-Sack tournament! Then we can come back in here and watch a nice movie. What's your favourite movie, Kitty?"

"Teeee-veeeee…"

"Well, there's probably a movie called TV, I'm not sure. I'll have to check that. If there is, though, I'm sure it's really, really good. Like, six stars. It's that good, I imagine."

"Teeee-veeee!"

_Weird, they all keep saying 'TV' and 'Hackey-Sack' in drawn-out, monotone voices. And they haven't complained about my presence at all. Ah, probably a social experiment of theirs. If what Chops has been telling me about Elka is right, then girls love their little social experiments. Actually, maybe I could try hypnotizing one of them. I want Franke to say something else. Kitty can stick to TV and hackey-sack, though._

Vernon promptly pressed his finger against the side of his head, focusing his thoughts. In this case, feelings of great reward and great loyalty to said reward, the Hand That Feeds that Omar had mentioned. A glowing purple ellipsis formed above Vernon's head, which, as he tried to mentally grasp Franke's mind with the hand, the ellipsis broke apart and swirled around her, just as it had done with Bobby earlier.

"Are you feeling sleepy?"

"Teee-veee!"

"I said, 'are you feeling sleepy'?"

"Hackey-sack!"

_Now that's really weird. I can't find her mind. She must have been working on her mental defences. No big surprise there. Since Lilli told everyone about Raz and his telepathy skills, all the girls have been in a scramble to improve them. Ah well, I tried. Back to watching the boob tube._

He promptly released his focus on her, allowing the purple dots to dissipate into thin air, and went back to watching the TV. After an unusual whole minute of silence from anyone, Vernon went about talking again.

"Hey guys, I just remembered what this show is called! It's called… wait, no, that was the other show. The one that Chloe hates because of its inaccurate representation of her people. Now how the heck did I get a Sci-Fi confused with a Western? You know, that reminds me of that one time last year when I was with Chloe, and the show came up, and she proceeded to stand up on the TV like it was a soapbox and point out all the inaccuracies of the show. Like, for instance, when the aliens starting shooting at everybody indiscriminately, she told us how her people would only start shooting after they'd determined that the population were of no use to them, a lot like humans and animals. Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Teeeee-veeeee…" Franke responded, Kitty seconding it with yet another drawn-out "Haaaaackey-saaaaack…".

_Clearly, she really loves hackey-sack. Maybe I'll get her to say something else if I start saying it, if only because we'll all get bored of non-varied conversation eventually._

"Yeeeeees, haaaaaackey-saaaaaaack." He said, imitating Kitty and Franke's unusual monotone deliveries. Not that his own voice sounded much different to a casual observer.

"Oh no… they're all brainless!" A familiar voice called over from the room's entrance. Vernon looked over and recognized the newcomer as Razputin, the new kid who unexpectedly broke in the night before, or 'Raz', as he insisted he be known as, and 'Gogglicious' as Bobby insisted he be known as, on account of his large goggles.

_Just what does he need those goggles for, anyway? Ah, never mind, I should talk to him. I mean, he's only the fastest-progressing guy here. What could possibly go wrong?_

"Hi Raz!" Vernon responded, returning to his 'normal' tone, with subtle differences from his 'monotone' tone.

"Vernon, you're okay!" Raz said, expressing relief, which was strange to Vernon, since, in order to be relieved, one must be panicking and/or afraid, and in order to be panicking and/or afraid, one must be in danger.

_Meh, I'll think about it later. Too relaxed for that right now. Can't be that bad if I haven't heard of it 'till now._

"Yeah, we're great." The fez-wearing storyteller responded earnestly. "Me and my pals Kitty and Franke are just hanging out, telling stories and watching the boob tube."

"Tee-veeee!" Kitty went off again, this time completely randomly, with no stimulus at all.

"Vernon, look at them. They're zombies!" Raz stressed.

_Hmm. They do come across as very zombie-like. Maybe I could write a story about that. Zombies attack a camp full o' Psychics! Those big Hollywood goons love zombies right now. If nothing else, it'll make me rich._

Instead of telling Raz his new idea and risk confusing the hell out of him and/or enraging him in the off-chance that he was not a fan of zombies, he instead resorted to grim factuality.

"It did seem kind of weird when they let me get this close to them. And then they didn't mind when I talked all through the show. Kitty even agreed to go on a date with me, more or less. We're gonna play hackey-sack!"

"Keep an eye on them, Vernon! I'm gonna go figure out what's causing this!" The tone in his voice made it clear that there was some real mysteries going on, and Raz was on a mission. An interesting mission.

…_A mission that, if I'm involved in it, will make great material. Quick, say something that expresses my explicit involvement!_

"Roger that, Raz!"

Strangely, Raz didn't leave immediately after Vernon had said that, but instead stuck around for a while. Raz was always a curiosity to Vernon. Ignoring the obvious fact that he had broken into the camp the night before, having apparently run away from the circus, and had strong enough mental defences to resist all three of the main teachers combined, he noticed that Raz was one of four people at camp who often listened to everything he had to say, along with Dogen, Clem and Crystal; and in their cases, Dogen generally only did it when he needed to calm down after any squirrel-related incidents, and Clem and Crystal listened to everything anyway, in their desperate (and, to them, futile) quest to raise everybody's spirits (there was always Franke, as well, but only when she wasn't around Kitty, so it was extremely occasional). Vernon decided to take advantage and began his next story immediately. So much so that he actually made one up on the spot, based very, very loosely off real events (or arguably true second-hand testimony of real events), rather than bringing in his archive of pre-written ones. Not that they would have been any more engaging.

"Did you ladies know that one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War was fought on the shore of this very lake? Yup, it's true. It happened back when this camp was still an Indian Summer Camp and Burial Ground. A group of Union soldiers got separated from their regiment. Night was falling, and they were cold… and scared… of Dracula! Boo! Huhuhuh!"

_Dracula? Must have been all the Zombie-related thoughts. I think I should save Dracula for another story._

"…Um, I'm kidding. They were just terrified of getting shot. Though I'm sure any of them with any sense were afraid of Dracula too. They stumbled across an old building… you can still see it on the far side of the lake. So they decided to spend the night there…"


	6. Lungfish

(Boathouse & Beach, Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, Day 3, 7:34 PM)

"_Hey, has anybody seen Franke? I was hanging out in the TV lounge and I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, everybody was gone. I know they wouldn't normally leave in the middle of a story, so I'm a little worried. If you see them, tell them I'm looking for them, okay?"_

_~Vernon_

Vernon, usually calm and collected, was actually genuinely worried as he finished writing up the note before sticking it to the wooden notice board next to several other notices regarding missing people, along with the long-awaited conclusion to the tension between JT and Elka, posted for all to see. Even Vernon was glad to see JT had given up on her, and not just because she had punched him earlier that day. There was also a notice about how Agents Nein and Vodello would have to leave on 'Official Psychonauts Business'.

_Wow, this is terrifying and fascinating at the same time. First Raz sounds like he's on a mission, now the teachers are actually on a mission, and half the campers have completely disappeared. Hmm… should I write about it out here for atmosphere, or indoors for safety from whatever is causing this nonsense?_

The sun was beginning to set, giving the sky and orange hint and casting great shadows over everything, including Vernon. So it was a rather ominous sight when a figure suddenly wandered out of the water in a very slow, shambling manner. One might even say zombie-like. Thankfully for Vernon, it was a rather small female figure, albeit one who rarely made herself seen to anyone besides her best (boy)friend Elton. Milka Phage. Naturally, Vernon ran up to her to question her on what in the hell was happening.

"Oh, uh… heheh, hi Milka! I don't suppose you could tell me what the hell's going on here, could you? I mean, everybody's disappearing, the teachers are gone, and now you've just walked out of the sea like it was nothing. I mean, I heard about your little Lungfish escapade with Benny, which was a really, really funny story but… you're not really just a fish in disguise, are you?"

"Uh, uh… t-t-t… tee… v-v-veeeeee…"

"Oh hell, another one! Come on guys, this isn't funny! Say something else, Milka! Please?"

"Ha…ha-hackey-s…s-s-saaaaack…"

"Yeah, I like hackey-sack too. In fact, I was supposed to be having a date with Kitty tonight involving a lot of hackey-sacking, before she vanished into thin air! Why would Kitty accept a date from me anyway? I know she didn't accept a date from Quentin, and if Quentin gets turned down, who is left? Nobody, that's who."

As Vernon said all of this at an uncharacteristically fast pace, Milka just sort of shambled past him, still stuttering out an occasional 'TV'. Of course, what really piqued Vernon's immediate interest was a familiar squeaky voice from some distance away, going "TEEEE-VEEEE!" really loud.

"I mean, Nils could try, but he'd fail. He's all talk and no- wait, Franke, was that you?! There's no TVs out here, just murky water that kinda reminds me of a story about an unlucky kid who nearly drowned in murky swamp water after having fallen from one of those little remote-controlled blimps flying in from Miami, where there was a-"

"TEEE-VEEEE!" She squealed.

"Alright, alright, keep your hair on!"

Vernon ran over to the source of his female friend's voice, originating from a series of bushes overshadowed by the tall pink trees flanking the walkway descending to the beach. As he entered the especially dark and shadowy area, he spied his surroundings, pressing his finger against his head to see if he couldn't detect her psychically, but that turned out to be unnecessary, for he managed to make out Franke's figuratively blazing orange hair amongst the bushes. Feeling around the place blindly, he stuck his arm into the bush, grabbed her hand and pulled her out, leaves flying all over.

"Franke, what are you doing in a bush? And why do you keep saying 'TV'? My mom says there's a lot more to life than TV, you know. Valuable advice, that is."

"Tee…vee…" she said, appearing to shudder in fear.

"What's with all the shaking? D'you have insomnia? I mean, with your apparent obsession with TV, that wouldn't surprise me. All those hours spent awake… wait, what's that smell? Smells of fish."

Indeed, the air surrounding the pair of them had been consumed by the strong odour of the ten-foot-tall, bipedal Lungfish that had somehow managed to sneak up behind them. Vernon looked around to find the source of the smell and instead ended up vis-à-vis with the creature's glowing eyes, each of them bigger than his head. Then Vernon's own eyes grew to the point of almost consuming his face upon seeing the enormous creature that had been thought of as a legend.

"Oh… crud-the-dud."

With that unusual form of expressing shock, the Lungfish proceeded to swoop its catcher down right on Vernon's head, grasping it tight and raising him in the air, causing his body to sort of flop about in the air. It was at this point that Vernon noticed something unusual about the legendary creature.

"Hey, wait a minute! There's no hooks! There is an antenna, sure, but that's not a hook! That's an antenna! And even if it was, it's not the thing turning my blood to ice and vice versa; that'd be the fact that it just PICKED ME UP OFF THE GROUND AND IS NOW GOING TO EAT ME! Damn unreliable storytellers! Damn Bob-"

Before he could name the one to blame for the gaping inaccuracy in his earlier story, The Hulking Lungfish proceeded to throw Vernon up in the air and positioned itself so as to catch him in its mouth and swallow him up. Vernon blacked out at that point, and if all had gone according to its master's plans, he would stay blacked out for a very, very long time. Either way, his thoughts, trapped firmly within his mind, now turned towards how he would tell people about the strange experience he was going through.

_Hmm… it's dark, and cold, and very, very, wet… like if you were locked in a locker that was then thrown into the sea? Nah, too lengthy. Like a thawed cryo-chamber in a powerless building? Better, but maybe it wouldn't fit too well... bit too sci-fi-ish for this situation… or is it? Yup, there's limits on how sci-fi-ish a situation can get._


	7. Departures

(Parking Lot, Campgrounds Main, Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, Day 4, 11:02 AM)

Well, there he was again. Another visit to Whispering Rock, another horrifying incident, and another fortnight-long training session cut short by said horrifying incident. Of course, in his opinion, what happened this time wasn't nearly as bad as Park Park Park throwing him (and about five others) in the GPC for three days the year before since he was actually awake and conscious for that whole thing, plus no kids got to join the Psychonauts Academy after a mere day of being there, but even so, he was struck with a tinge of horror at having been involved in a potential plot to take over the world using the brains of himself and the other campers that had only been narrowly averted.

But all worked out well in the end, it seemed. Oleander was put on extensive probation, Dr. Loboto (who many secretly suspected to be Bobby Zilch's father) somehow survived his fall from his lab and was sent to another, much more secure insane asylum, Razputin got to join the Psychonauts as a trainee, the rest of the campers were all being sent home early, but most importantly for Vernon, he had written up everything, or at least what Raz told him after his recranialization, taking a few artistic liberties here and there (for one thing, he decided to write up an entirely fictional segment in which he befriended a crown-wearing tortoise in the forest, which later sacrificed its life to save Vernon from a telekinetic bear attack) and it was all set for publication… when the time was right.

For now, Vernon was literally back at the beginning. He was standing around the Parking Lot, holding his bag of minimal possessions, anticipating the grand storytelling session he would host back home and his sisters' critical reactions, if they didn't quit halfway through, that is (of Vernon's little sisters, Luca was the more persistent and would often be the one to fall asleep while Cassie, the youngest of all three, wandered off elsewhere to play video games). Once again, Kitty Bubai was loading up her enormous trove of possessions onto the bus, and once again, Franke Athens approached Vernon, this time without any kind of provocation. Both of them had loose ends to tie up.

"Uh… hi Vernon." she said, with a strong, shaky tone of nervousness.

"Hello, Franke. How can I help you on this fine day?"

"Well, I, uh, remember that notice you put up yesterday, where you wanted to meet me at the Make-Out Cave…"

"Yup, and you said you weren't interested. I've been meaning to tell you, actually, despite the connotations of-"

"I don't care, stupid! I just want to say that I did want to meet up, and I was gonna tell you, but then the Dorkfish had to show up and take my brains out!"

"Well, technically, the Lungfish only brought you to the Asylum, where-"

"Shut up, Mr. Boring! I'm trying to tell you I would've gone on a date with you, and you won't shut up!"

"Wait…" went Vernon, his voice slowing down to an unheard degree and his eyes growing huge as they had done in the face of the Lungfish. "Are you telling me that you would have said 'yes' if I had-"

"-Asked for a make-out? Of course! I mean, your stories are, like, so cool! The bizarre is what makes them great! They're engaging in a whole new way! And I've heard artists are some of the best lovers in the world!"

"Look, Franke, I like you, but not in _that_ way. I only asked you to meet up with me at Make-Out Cave because I wanted to ask for help on my screenplay."

"...Before making out, right?"

"No, there wasn't going to be any making-out involved."

"…You're kidding! Why would you invite me to a place called 'Make-Out Cave' if you didn't wanna make out? What sense does that make?"

"I only chose that venue because it was a nice, quiet spot where one's thoughts become clear, as the air is clear, and the water is clear…"

"And everything's so clear! That's why they call it Make-Out Cave, stupid! Hehehe!"

As they were exchanging motives, Kitty, once again, decided to pick the worst possible moment to interrupt. Of course, she knew more than the others, and she showed it, strolling over confidently and poking her head forward.

"Franke, are you talking to this bore again? This bore that you have a disgusting crush on?"

"WHAT?! I-I mean, what are you talking about, I… I don't have a crush on Mr. Bahwasupt… he'd kill me with his… boring… ness…"

"Franke, I'm not that stupid. I heard you talking in your sleep every night since you met him. Well, telepathising. Talking, telepathising, same thing. You were going 'Oh Vernon Tripe, Vernon Tripe, write a story about us, where the angel of love in his Dodge Charger comes to take us away to a really nice hotel which serves Victoria Sponge cake'…"

"Kitty, that's just stupid! I, uh… I don't like Victoria Sponge cake!"

"And then you said 'and then tell me how you're going to describe our make-out session' and what followed was so cheesy, I almost puked!"

"Shut up, Kitty! You're embarrassing me!"

"In front of your boyfriend? That's kinda the whole idea; you should know, I taught you. Anyway, after two nights of that, I couldn't take it anymore, so I wrote a note that said 'Vernon, Franke totally has a crush on you. She is warm for your form'".

"So it was YOU! I should've known!"

"Umm… guys? Can we all calm down for a moment here?" Said Vernon in vain, his voice being consumed by the louder voices of the friends, or, at that time, soon-to-be-mere-acquaintances-if-they-weren't-care ful.

"Seriously, Franke, of all the people you could have a crush on, you choose this guy? I mean, none of the guys here are that good, but Vernon… even his name sounds boring. I mean, just imagine how boring that date you dreamt of would have actually been?"

"I'm standing right here, Kitty…"

"I know, and I don't care."

"You will care..." He said, placing his fingers on the side of his skull and, again, focusing invisible beams of pleasant thoughts directly at Kitty. He always considered himself patient and, again, polite, but he had his limits. He remembered what his Uncle said, _'I'm not suggesting you abuse your power like those cruel, selfish pigs I mentioned earlier… I'm suggesting you use it against them. Beat them at their own game.'_

"Vernon, what are you doing?!" Franke almost squeaked out, alarmed.

"I have things I need to clear up, and Kitty is beginning to irritate me." He said in an unusually serious tone, as Kitty began to lose her grip on the world around her, purple ellipses forming above Vernon's head and circling around Kitty's half-conscious form. Going "Huh? Vernon, you wouldn't... dare... try anything, or my Dad... will..."

"You shall fall asleep, and you shall remain asleep until I clap my hands. When I do that, you will leave me and Franke alone until I have finished by business with her, and you will refrain from bothering me or her about this subject matter again."

With that, he clapped his hands, and just like Bobby Zilch before her, she looked around as if she had been startled out of her sleep before regaining her senses.

"Franke, now you see how boring this guy is? He made me fall asleep... I can't believe you'd even consider dating-"

"Kitty, me and Franke need to talk about something, so if you don't mind...?"

"Oh, fine, whatever. Anything to stop me from missing the bus! Franke, you'd better make this quick, 'cause I'm not waiting for you this time!"

Kitty proceeded to return to her great pile of possessions and resumed loading them, as if she'd completely forgotten why she had walked over to Franke in the first place. Franke watched the whole thing with her small mouth agape.

"Vernon... what did you do to her?"

"I hypnotised her. Well, technically, I psychically manipulated her thoughts so she would be inclined to obey my commands, unlike true hypnotism, where they need to be somewhat inclined to obey your commands in the first place, but we just call it hypnotism anyway, it's much easier."

"She'll be back to normal eventually, right? She better. I mean, she can be mean at times, I admit, but she's still my friend and... you know, the money gets to her head..."

"Relax, I'm not that good at it. That's why I had to do the whole 'you are feeling sleepy' routine. A more experienced hypnotist wouldn't have to do that."

"But... I didn't know you were a hypnotist! Why didn't you use your powers earlier?"

"Because I didn't have a specific need for it. I could have used it for my own gain, I admit, but I refrain from doing so for that would be an abuse of The Hand That Feeds. It is meant for good things, in my opinion. Abusing the power of hypnotism only feeds the false notion that hypnotists such as myself are greedy, manipulative villains. My Uncle Omar faced... problems because of such a notion. Specifically, he wished to join the Psychonauts to further their noble cause, but found himself rejected twice. He encouraged me to go here to improve their image, and my own skills. I am not particularly thrilled at the idea of joining the Psychonauts, but I feel my time here has been worthwhile, if the thirty-page-long story about the Coach's plot is any indication."

"Woah..." she replied, still reeling from the revelation.

"But enough about me, that is ultimately irrelevant to what we were originally discussing, is it not? I wanted to address the fact that, while you are a very nice girl, I never had any intention of making out with you or engaging in any sort of romantic activity. I hate to ruin your high spirits, but that is the honest truth."

"Oh..." she replied once again, now reeling from another revelation, now that she's stopped to listen to it. "So... what does this mean?"

"Do not be demoralised. You can still consider me a friend of yours... just one who wouldn't engage in any make-outs or any other variety of romantic activity. But if you're willing to assist me in ironing over the flaws in my screenplay..."

"What is this screenplay you keep talking about, anyway? Is it bizarre and wacky like most of your stories?"

"I'm afraid it's not. This one tries to tackle a more serious subject matter. You know the asylum across the big lake which Bobby lead me to believe was built by Indians on a Caveman burial ground? Even though, when I think about it, it doesn't make any sense because surely everywhere's a Caveman burial ground, and Indians aren't even from here, they're from India, and I know 'cause everyone on my mom's side of the family is from India too..."

"Yeah, I know that place. The asylum, that is. The one which got blown up last night. Raz says he cured _everyone_ there! Pfft, what a show-off."

Suddenly, the deafening sound of a jet engine mixed with the even more deafening sound of pulsating psychic energy filled the car park, prompting everyone crowded around the bus to cover their ears. As the trees all began rustling and swaying about, causing swathes of leaves to fall, a great big white jet plane with a pulsating psychic engine underneath appeared from behind said trees and zoomed off into the sky, leaving trails of, you guessed it, psychic energy.

"Okay, what the hell was that?!" Franke uttered, to which Vernon, still staring at the sky, counter-uttered:

"I don't know. But now that story about Oleander's plot has gotten six pages longer. Most of it consisting of theories as to where that plane just went. That kind of reminds me of my dog, Lady. When we were on our longest walk of all time, we visited a local airstrip, and Lady thought it'd be a brilliant idea to run onto the strip itself, and so I had to follow her, running onto the strip, but I was stopped by some security guards who told me that my dog was going to really screw stuff up and one of them said something about pet insurance, then I looked over and I saw this guy in a broken-down baggage carrier get out and grab Lady so that she wouldn't get flattened by the 737 that was coming in to land, and then the plane came closer... and closer... and closerrrrr..."

"It didn't... flatten Lady, did it?"

"Nah, she died earlier this year, of Lymphoma. This was... two years ago, I think. The guy in the baggage carrier was trying to move out the way so that the plane wouldn't smash into it when it landed, but then the plane got really close and..."

"A-and then what?!" Franke said, looking visibly tensed.

"...And it flew right overhead, because it was nowhere near the place where it was actually going to land."

"Ugh, Vernon! You almost had me scared for a moment there... I thought hundreds more people were gonna die, plus your dog."

"Well, that would've been very bad and messy and problematic and most likely lawsuit-baiting... but you know, if I had said yes, the plane did crash and kill Lady, that'd be kinda confusing because earlier I said Lady died of Lymphoma earlier this year... which was tragic."

"Awww..."

"But anyway, the plane landed a long way away, and then I asked the security guard what kind of plane it was, and he said it was a 737, which is like a 747 except smaller, as you'd expect, given how the number is smaller. Then he asked me what I was thinking walking my dog near an airstrip, and so I told him that I had challenged myself to just let the dog walk me, and somehow I ended up there. Well, actually, what happened was, I walked onto the street, and then we turned left, and then we turned right, and then we walked three miles, and then Lady had to stop and scratch, and then we took a soft right, and then we got lost for a while, and then we stopped and asked for directions, and then we took a sharp left, and then I stopped to my shoelaces, and then I fell down an open manhole and had to insert my own arm back in its socket, and then..."

While Vernon was busy reciting his literal Shaggy Dog Story, as Lady was a very shaggy dog indeed, Kitty walked over, having finished loading up her mountain of goodies and getting in everyone's way in the process. Vernon's hypnosis was still partially in effect, but on the other hand, it had weakened, so Kitty would have no choice, albeit unwillingly, to reach a compromise for when the bus departed in a short time.

She turned to Franke and sighed, making a request. "Franke, if you can get the B.H.W.S.U.P.T to shut his mouth for an hour or two, then maybe I'll let you do some bonding... maybe. Guh, I still have no idea what you're thinking..." She muttered, climbing aboard the bus.

"Uh, sure thing, Kitty! C'mon, Vernon, or can I call you Vern? Never mind, just get in, I still wanna know how on Earth you ended up at an airport while walking your dog! And then maybe you can finally tell me about this screenplay?" The former was an interesting question, in all fairness, but Vernon would never settle for merely telling her. Nope, he would continue to go on and on, as he does, and he probably would go and on and on to his family later that day, when they ask him what the hell happened at Camp. For now, he followed Franke aboard the bus, his endless stream of dog-walking activities nowhere near its conclusion.

"...And then I walked up a hill, and then we stopped and waited for some cars to pass before the crossing the road, and then we walked into a park, and then Lady had to stop and do some dog business in the grass, and then we ran away real fast because I realised you can get fined for that sort of thing, and then we crossed another road, this time without waiting because there were less cars, and then we reached a square, and then we just sort of stood still for a while, and then I gave Lady a bone..."


End file.
